


Separate

by pushingthesenses



Series: The Cultist [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cults, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Dyad (Star Wars), Forced Marriage, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren in Love, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Separation Anxiety, Suicidal Thoughts, Yet they still want it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingthesenses/pseuds/pushingthesenses
Summary: This is a side-piece related to The Cultist.
Relationships: Ben Solo/Reader, Kylo Ren/Reader
Series: The Cultist [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990063
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	Separate

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm overwhelming you guys with The Cultist content right now, but this was inspired by a sweet anon from [this tumblr ask](https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/post/633500418878636032/ok-that-update-was-amazing-ahhhh-so-worth-the). This is the last chapter (chapter nineteen) from Kylo's perspective. I usually write in second person omniscient, and I surprised myself that I didn't include much of Kylo's perspective. So, here we are. Also, **please heed the tags**. 
> 
> Perhaps we'll take a break from The Cultist content after this if it's all getting a bit much! I just wanted to put this up (as I post these side-pieces on both here and tumblr) as I said I'd work on it today. Anyways, I was jamming to Separate by PVRIS as I wrote this and may have shed a tear. So it goes.

Kylo Ren has felt panic before.   
He’s felt it at night, before he falls asleep. When he’s stuck in that purgatory between a dreamstate and reality - alone with his demons, alone with himself.   
He’s felt it in his dreams, when he chases a boy, a friend, Poe. When he screams to him that he’s sorry, _so_ sorry, that he too hates who he has become.   
He’s felt it when he wakes, coated slick with sweat, heaving vomit all over his cot.   
It’s a feeling he knows well. But he hasn’t felt it in a while. Not since _you_.

“You can’t separate us,” he’s deferring the inevitable, this he knows. His anger won’t shield him, it never has. And when Trudgen reaches for him, Kylo retreats. It’s an act of provocation he’ll surely pay for, but they _can’t_ take him from you. It’s the one thing, he now realises, that he’ll resist. The one order he’ll defy. The one command he’ll ignore. Because he has to. Because he can’t leave you. “I’m not leaving her.” 

But Kylo Ren is not as robust as he thinks he is. His armour built of defiance and fury has faltered, and though he sees the Knight’s approach, though he knows they’re speaking, he can’t hear them. He can’t hear anything - just the sound of his breath as it heaves and burns in his throat. It’s caustic, it _hurts_ . The thrum of his heartbeat rackets through his ears, and he can hear the blood rushing through his own veins. He thinks, for a moment, he might be sick, that he might vomit right there in front of them, in front of _you_. His chest heaves again. He feels like he might lose his footing. It’s as though he’s trapped between panes of glass, cornered in a prism that doesn’t quite feel real. 

But then it shatters. 

You’re in front of him now, and he’s hauled back to reality with so much force that it startles him. He gulps for air, gasping harshly as you attempt to find his eyes, hidden beneath strands of sweat-dampened hair. 

“Kylo? Can you look at me?”

He meets your gaze instantly, your voice his only tie to any semblance of coherence, to any semblance of calm. The Knight’s move slightly as they watch - the twitch of arms, the tilt of a head - and each movement frightens him. He braces himself each time, expecting to be ripped from you. _No_ , they can’t take him. He needs to feel you, needs to anchor himself to you. 

“C-can I-” 

“Yes,” you cut him off, and he knows that you’ve heard him, heard the pleas that circle in his mind. “Of course.” 

He grasps for you like he’s never done for anyone, or anything. He’s not even sought a blanket in the dead of winter as quickly as he reaches for you now, his hands connecting with what feels like all of you at once. Arms, shoulders, wrists. He’s never felt so _much_ of you. A hand grabs for yours, and he cradles it to his chest - an intrinsic action that he doesn’t quite understand himself. Something flashes across your mind, then, from yours to his. An infant with a blue blanket, cradled to his tiny face, wrapped around his delicate chest. He doesn’t understand it. Nor does he have the time to question it. Not when you could be ripped from him, or him from you. He brings you closer to him, his other hand lays firmly on your back to ensure that you _stay_. Right there. With him. 

“Y-you can’t take her from me,” he manages shakily through gritted teeth. His breathing hasn’t settled, despite his best efforts to control it. “You can’t.” 

He lifts his head and stares the Knight’s down with a feigned sense of determined revolt. Because he’s faltering. They know it as much as he does. 

“Kylo,” your voice captures his immediate attention, and his eyes connect with yours. “It won’t be for long, I promise.” 

“I don’t want to,” he’s ashamed, incredibly so, of the desperation in his voice. He’s been taught, for so many years, that such whiny behaviour is weak. The actions of a frail man, and not The Chosen One. “I don’t _want_ to be apart.” 

“I know,” you keep your voice low, calm, steady. It soothes him, somewhat. “I don’t want to either, but when you see me again, it’ll be at the ceremony. You’ve been looking forward to that, haven’t you?”

He has. 

“It won’t be for long,” you repeat. “But it will be worth it, won’t it?” 

It _will_. 

And Maker, the way it rushes through him. This feeling of complete and utter adoration, of peace, of serenity, of _love_ . He’s never thought it possible, never thought his devils would retreat for long enough to allow him to feel something so beautifully strong, so _consuming_. His head tips down to rest against yours, relief flowing through every cell of him. 

“And you know what?” His eyes flutter open at your words. “You’ll still be with me in here,” you press into his forehead a little firmer. “Even when we’re apart.” 

Relief gushes through him again, simply at the reminder of your connection, of your bond. He pulls your hand further into his chest, squeezing it softly in recognition. But before he can speak, before he can thank you, before he can say a single word, he hears him. 

“Ren,” Cardo. The brute. “ _Now_ .”   
“Cardo,” Vicrul hisses. “He’s _coming_ .”  
“He’s not, he’s still standing there. Useless, as always.”   
Cardo lunges before Kylo has a second to react, ripping you from his grasp. His hands grip tightly around your arms, and as he tosses you to the side, Kylo collides with him.   
“Don’t-” He pummels against Cardo as he grapples with him. “Don’t _touch_ her.”  
“I just did,” he sneers. “What are you gonna do about it, Ren?” 

Despite his thrashes, despite his violent kicks and shoves, Cardo doesn’t relent. And though Kylo knows - as he always has - that he can win this fight, he doesn’t. But unlike before, it’s less out of fear, less out of terror of the consequences of his actions, and more for you. It would _ruin_ him if you feared him again. He brandishes what little self control he has managed to retain, stifling himself as he’s hauled from your bedroom, from his haven. From you.

* * *

He’s being hauled to the showers. He knows this, knows the walk like it’s in his muscle memory. He’s not resisting anymore. He lets his feet fall into stride with the Knight’s, keeps his appendages limp as they guide him forward. He’s not sure if it’s giving up, or if it’s simply part of his routine, part of his body’s natural reaction to being guided down these corridors. The fluorescent lights and the green mold tinted hue to the dampened walls have a hypnotic effect, sending him into a state of obedience once more. 

“I’ve already showered,” he mumbles as they shove him inside the cubicle. Kylo’s panic bubbles precariously beneath the surface, his anxious heart still beating faster than it should. 

“Not well, obviously,” Vicrul grunts. “Your hair’s covered in sweat.” 

The other Knight’s have retreated to the sinks, leaving only Vicrul with him. Cardo, though, he stands by the door. Brooding, imposing. Watching. 

“I don’t know how to do it properly,” Kylo murmurs, his voice diminished to a state so quiet he can barely hear it. “How to clean it.” 

Vicrul scrubs at his scalp with force, not paying much attention to how his nails grate through his skin, causing it to bleed. Kylo doesn’t register the pain. 

“She’ll have to teach you, then, won’t she?”   
“Teach me?”  
“If you let her, I’m sure she will.”

Kylo imagines your hands in his hair, how gentle they’d be in comparison to _this_ . Because you’re always gentle with him, he thinks. Far more so than he thinks he deserves. His panic dissipates with the thought of you, of your touch. Of your _good_ touch. He reaches to you, then. Tentatively pulling at the tethers that bind you. When he feels you, when he feels how you tug back on that string, he breathes a quiet sigh of relief. You’re still here. You’re still with him.

When they force him down into the seat, the one that faces the mirror he so dreads, he’s plagued with memories of emotions he never thought he’d surpass. Memories of hoping the blade would slip, memories of praying that his body would bleed itself dry, right there on the cracked and dirty tile. Now, he hopes it doesn’t. Because he’s not finished here, not yet. Not now that he has you. 

“Here,” Trudgen holds a selection of unfamiliar dark fabrics on a hanger. “Put these on.”   
“What are they?”   
Kylo reaches out to run a finger across the stiff material. Instantly, he recoils.   
“I don’t know,” Trudgen grunts. “But you have to wear it. It’s your ceremony outfit.”   
Kylo winces.   
“It feels strange.”   
“Just put it _on_.” 

So, he does. And how it itches at his skin. How it stiffens at the elbows infuriates him, and the complicated nature of the shirt is perhaps the worst of all. He struggles with the buttons. He’s never worn anything with buttons. 

“Do you know how to tie this?” Trudgen holds out a crimson tie to Vicrul. “He obviously doesn’t.”  
“No,” Vicrul shakes his head. Ap’lek, Kuruk and Ushar also shake their heads in confusion.   
“Alright,” Trudgen sighs. “So we don’t do the tie.”  
“He has to wear the tie,” Ushar hisses. “You’ll get us all in trouble for incompetence.”   
“What’s the point in doing the tie if it’s just gonna be hanging around his neck?” Trudgen exclaims, flinging the tie at Ushar. “We’re not doing the tie.”   
“What’s the purpose of it?” Kylo interjects, and Ushar glowers at him.  
“I don’t know, but _you’re_ supposed to wear it, and _we’re_ supposed to dress you.”   
“Just leave it,” Vicrul grits. “And stop bickering, we’ll be late.”   
  


* * *

Kylo falls silent again as he’s dragged through the corridors toward the throne room. He tugs on your bond again as he walks, and he sighs contentedly when he feels you pull back. Still here. Still with him. 

“Will she be here?” He perks up, looking to Vicrul.   
“No,” he grunts. “Not yet, anyway.”   
“But soon?”  
“Soon.” 

But soon isn’t soon enough. His panic, his anger rises once again, and he fears the worst - that Snoke has tricked him, that you were simply a ploy to trigger something deep within him, that you’ll be snatched away as quickly as you were gifted to him. The room seems smaller now than ever before, as he feels the walls begin to encroach on him. Brendol sits smugly off to one-side, awaiting Snoke’s arrival. His face, his ruddy, rounded face only infuriates Kylo further. He’s hysterical, now. He _roars_. 

The Knights are on him in seconds. 

“ _Stop_ ,” Trudgen hisses. “Stop acting like a child.” 

Kylo thrashes furiously. He’s not sure he ever was a child. 

“Armitage has just left to retrieve her,” Vicrul says calmly. “She’s _coming_. She’s on her way.” 

Kylo’s chest heaves as he pauses, looking up at Vicrul hopefully. 

“She’s coming?”  
“She’s coming.” 

He brings himself down from the ledge he so often seems to be dancing on, the ledge between fury and losing control. He lets Vicrul guide him to the centre of the room, where he’s told to wait. Because you’re coming. Because you’re on your way, because he’ll get to see you- 

The doors swing open, and Kylo feels you before he sees you. Feels your presence, one he wishes he could describe in a deft manner. One he wishes he could articulate. But when he turns, when he _sees_ you, he loses all possibility of speech at all. 

Kylo is convinced you’re made of stars. You _have_ to be. The way you glow, the way you shine - ethereal, celestial and durable all at once. Kylo doesn’t know these words, of course. Not yet, anyway. But you teach them to him, and when he looks back on this memory, those are the words he chooses. The words that fit you best. Because when he was a boy, he couldn’t rip himself from the stars. He was pulled to them, could never divert his attention elsewhere. And now, now that you’re coming to a halt right before him, he wonders if the stars could ever compare to you. 

He releases the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, shakily composing himself. 

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and as he says it, he realises it’s the first time he’s said those words aloud. “Y-you’re _so_ beautiful.”"  
"Thank you,” you murmur, and he hopes that you feel it, how his admiration swells further and further each moment he’s around you.   
“You look great, too,” you smile, and Kylo blushes furiously. No one has ever said such things to him before. “I-I’ve never worn anything like this,” he mumbles, tugging at his cufflinks. “I don’t like it.”   
You giggle softly, and Kylo’s eyes come alive with the sound. He’ll never tire of it, he’s sure of that.

He barely registers Snoke entering the room, and is only pulled from the moment as he speaks - his tone booming through the mostly empty room. 

“Now,” his gravelly voice rips you from your moment. “Shall we begin?” 

Kylo has never felt excitement before, and doesn’t quite understand what it is that he’s feeling as the realisation sets in. It’s a ceremony. For you, for _both_ of you. 

“Ren,” Snoke turns to him. “Take her hands.” 

Kylo does, though they’re trembling, and he grips your hands steadily in an attempt to calm you. He feels your anxiety, it shudders right through him, and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the thought of you being afraid. He does something then, something he hasn’t done before. 

_It will be okay._

He hopes you can hear him, hopes that you understand. Hopes that you believe him. 

_We will be okay._

Snoke speaks to regard you, and Kylo feels your irritation, your indignation, when Snoke addresses you by his branded name. Kylo recognises it, empathises with it in a strange sort of way. 

“And Kylo Ren, the Chosen One, the future heir of The First Order and the Earth itself, you’re brought here together by the pull of something cosmic. By the pull of the force. By fate. Forevermore will you be bound - through body, mind and soul. And now, by the power vested in me by the Force, by the Maker, I bind you together in matrimony,” Snoke regards you by that name once again, and Kylo feels a wave of resentment pass from you to him. “Do you accept?” 

The anxiety Kylo feels in his bones now is his, and it threatens to spill over once more, threatens to cause a calamity right here and now. He chews at his lip, and hopes, prays to the Maker that you want him, that you’ll keep him, that you’ll let him stay with you for as long as he’s alive. He’d stitch himself right into your soul, if he could. 

“I do,” you nod, squeezing lightly at his hands. He squeezes back, breathing shakily in relief. 

“Kylo Ren, do you accept?” 

“I do,” he nods vigorously, “I-I do.” 

“Very well,” Snoke grins smugly. Kylo knows what comes next. The panic rises again. “You may kiss her, Ren.”

Kylo’s brow furrows in frustration. Snoke has been over this with him, has explained to him what to do, but still, he frets. He doesn’t know _how_ . He never once thought that he could touch another person with his mouth - though he craved it upon seeing you unexplainably, he never knew that he really _could_. 

_You don’t have to._

Your voice echoes through his mind, though your lips don’t move. He breathes out unevenly, swallowing thickly. 

_I want to_ . He does. _I don’t know how._

He feels you squeeze his hands again reassuringly. 

_That’s okay._

Kylo compromises with himself, does what he thinks he _can_ do. Something he craves, and has craved, for longer than he’d care to admit. Because since he first laid eyes on you, crumpled on the floor, it’s all his body could beg him to do. 

He leans down, and he’s aware that his face has never been so close to yours. Close enough to see every minute detail of your skin, every cell that constitutes your being. His eyes fall shut of their own accord, and his lips gently press to the skin of your cheek. It’s soft, so soft, and he leans further into the sensation. His veins feel alight with sparks of _you_. He never wants to be parted from your skin, from the stardust that ignites you. 

“My bride,” he murmurs against your skin. “My wife.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hello on tumblr!](https://kkysolo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
